


blessed are the meek

by snitches_get_stitches



Series: matthew 5:5 [2]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fridge Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snitches_get_stitches/pseuds/snitches_get_stitches
Summary: To many, “meekness” suggests the idea of passivity, someone who is easily imposed upon, spineless, weak. Nothing could be further from the truth.Meekness: Uncommon patience in planning a revenge that is worth while.-Ambrose Bierce
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Fernando Vera, Elliot Alderson/Shayla Nico
Series: matthew 5:5 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730557
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	blessed are the meek

**Author's Note:**

> this was a commission for the incredibly patient and generous [hagewashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hagewashi/pseuds/hagewashi), who wanted a sequel to [pull out his incisors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484740). i cannot thank you enough for reaching out to me. i really hope this does you justice.
> 
> this takes place immediately after [pull out his incisors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484740). i highly recommend you all read that first.
> 
> again, no non-con is actually depicted in this fic. it is heavily implied between scenes, and somewhat discussed between characters. tread carefully if any of the tags are triggering.

Elliot can't feel his body.

What he does feel is the stiff, unforgiving press of the bathtub under his ass, the bruised ache of his bony ankles bumping into the porcelain. The bath water has long since gone cold, and he’s left shivering and numb as the tub drains, squealing and gurgling with the effort.

Shayla quietly helps him dry off and get dressed, soft sweats and a clean shirt, handing him a pill as she settles him on the bed like a mother would her sick child. “Suboxone,” she informs gently, and he nods, trusting, swallowing it dry. 

She shuffles off to the kitchen to get him water and something bland to eat, fishing around his cabinets as he swallows around the painful dryness in his throat. He loves her, he dimly realizes. He loves her in the only way he can love anyone—through an intimate knowledge of her code, of all her unspoken conditions and her inescapable loops. A mutual breach of each other’s firewalls.

She returns shortly, a pack of saltines in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Do you remember having sex with him?” she prods as she settles down on the bed next to him, kohl-lined eyes earnest and soft.

The phrasing jolts him a little, rattles around in his brain like a dropped pin. _Sex, sex, sex._

He shakes his head, then instantly regrets it as his head throbs. “No,” he mumbles instead. “He was here when I got back… we did some H together. I think I blacked out.” He frowns, lifting a hand to rub at his temple. “I think I remember him taking my shirt off,” he admits, feeling a heavy weight settle in his stomach at the phantom memory, the vague sense of horror. “But that's it.”

She sighs sadly and hands him a single saltine, moving over him to set the glass on the floor by his bed. “I’m sorry,” she blurts unexpectedly. “I didn't think he'd get so obsessed with you.”

He looks over at her strangely as he bites softly into the cracker. It's stale. “I just mean—I wouldn't have introduced you to him if I knew he’d treat you like this, you know? Like how he treats me. I just thought, you know, you could tend bud for him while you got back on your feet...”

“It's not your fault,” he reminds her. “You only know him because of me, anyways. He's just... psychotic, Shayla. But we have to look for another supplier before I can turn him in.” It sounds cruel, saying it out loud, but it's their biological reality. They need Vera to survive.

He pauses for a second, thinking. “It's strange. I think. I think I passed out the other day when I slept with that corporate guy too. I don't remember anything after meeting him.”

She frowns, pets at his temple in concern. The physical contact is a bit much for him right now, the pads of her fingers warm and stifling against the tender skin, but he does his best to not flinch. “That's weird.”

“Yeah. I wonder if Vera mixed my morphine with something,” he wonders distantly, but even as he says it, he knows that it's not true. He routinely checks his supply for purity and Vera’s never let him down on that front. “I dunno. I need to look for some more contract jobs. Quit hanging around Vera so much.”

As he finishes the cracker, she rolls over to lie on his other side and huddles up against him. The warm press of her body irks him, but he can't bear to tell her off. “Whatever it is, I hope you're alright. Just don't like, die on me, okay? You're my bestie.”

He huffs at that, uncomfortable with the confession but touched nonetheless. “Thanks, Shayla. You're mine, too.”

“You fucked me,” Elliot accuses, spits hot and angry from his apartment stoop after doing his usual rounds. His backpack is full of dirty cash. “You dosed me up on fucking _heroin_ and then you _fucked_ me.”

Vera’s smiling with sharp teeth as he swaggers up to the building, like he's entertained by this realization, like he's grateful for the reminder. “Like I said, Elli,” he starts, reaching for Elliot's arms once he's on the stairs, within reach to tug him closer firmly. He smells like pot and stale sweat, and Elliot strains away from the sensory reminder. “You one’a my girls now. My rising _star._ ” He presses his thumbs hard into the soft insides of Elliot’s elbows, aching points of pressure that make the smaller twist and grimace. His needle mark throbs dully, a grim reminder of his weakness.

“Fucking— _stop_ , man,” he hisses, shoving Vera's hands off. The man looks surprised, like no one had ever told him _no_ before. Maybe no one has. “I said I’d buy from you. Nothing the fuck else.” The sky is wide and gray that day, and Vera is a tall dark shadow cast up against it, towering over where he has Elliot crowded up against the stair rail.

“You're brave, bruh, I’ll give you that,” Vera laughs a little manically. “But you're _stupid_. No one _just buys_ from Fernando Vera. You’d think your little girlfriend woulda told you that by now.” Elliot doesn't take the bait, just glares at the brick below them. “You deal for me, I own you. Like I said—this is the fucking sun you orbit now, homie. You're part of my solar system and all that cosmic shit! No one else got your precious _suboxone_ ‘sides me, anyway. Who the fuck else you gon’ turn to.”

Elliot takes a moment to fathom a world without his suboxone—without his last flimsy grasp of control over his chemical dependency. A universe without stars.

The helplessness of it all makes him so _angry_ , makes his vision go white as he blissfully imagines smashing Vera’s face in, imagines the solid and inescapable weight of an aluminum bat in his hand and the crunch of a skull.

Something must flick across his face, because Vera pulls back a step, eyeing him with a meditative look. “What,” he bites out.

Vera just smiles softly. “You know what your name means, Elliot?”

No, he doesn’t. Shakes his head.

“Googled that shit. _Brave and true_ , it says.” Elliot doesn’t have time to wonder why in the hell Vera is Googling his name, because the other presses forward with a reflective look in his dark eyes. “S’bad time to be brave.”

He moves away, up the stairs to the front door of Elliot’s complex. He swings it open, looking at the other expectantly. “An’ a stupid time.”

“Christ, Elliot,” Shayla comments as he cuts a rather long line of M on his mirror. It’s maybe sixty milligrams. Double his usual dose. Her voice is low, husky from the joint she’s smoking, clouding up his apartment. “Take it easy, you’ll feel like shit after.”

“I already feel like shit,” he brushes off. It’s true. Even with the suboxone, he’s had the shakes for nearly two days since the heroin incident with Vera, and his regular bumps of morphine haven’t been enough to stave them off. Even as he fumbles with the credit card in his hand, he feels the shakes like spiders up his spine, itchy and shivering from cold sweat. “I know, it’s bad, I just—I feel so fucking awful, Shayla. I need this.” 

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks on sadly from her corner of the couch. “You’ve had a shitty few days,” she acknowledges solemnly. “Just… don’t make a habit.”

He makes some noncommittal sound, before leaning forward and _finally_ relieving that goddamn _itch_ , nose going pleasantly numb as he struggles to finish his line. “Shit, yeah,” he says as he pulls away and drops the straw, taste already bitter in his throat. God, it feels so good though, even as the beginnings of his high begin to trickle through his bloodstream, little wet licks of pleasant warmth through his arteries.

He settles back against the couch comfortably, closing his eyes waiting for the rest of the high to kick in. He zeroes in on where Shayla’s socked toes are pressed into his thigh, where the leather of the couch clings sticky to his neck, where the radiator blasts heat somewhere to his left. It’s so blissfully goddamn _quiet_.

He enjoys a few moments of dreamy quietude, but jolts when he feels fingers brush his hair.

“Shit, sorry,” Shayla apologizes, all wide eyes, and pulls away, joint forgotten in the tray on the table. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

He shakes his head, forgiving, relaxing back into his seat. It’s the only time he really craves affection anyways, like this, numb and hazy from his high, so he nudges towards her, lets her settle her hand back into the hair on the crown of his head. He hums happily at the feeling, the muted stimulation against his skull. “Don’t move,” he mumbles, letting his eyes slide shut again. “Feels good.”

She brushes absently at his hair, his temple for a few moments, before sliding her hand down to his shoulder, down his arm. She pauses at his elbow, thumbing at the needle mark still visible there. “I’m sorry,” she says again, petting at the soft skin, the pale blue veins.

“Shayla,” Elliot begins, peeling his eyes open. The world is blurred for a moment, before she and the rest of the apartment shift into focus. “Don’t be. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

She meets his gaze, all soft green eyes and bitten lips, and something in Elliot softens, melts at the sight. He watches her, silent, observing, as she leans down and presses a kiss to his elbow, chaste. The tenderness of the act makes him flush, shift minutely as she turns and nuzzles into his chest, warm and heavy as the morphine continues to thrum through him pleasantly.

“Shayla,” he drawls, moving a hand to her hair. “Do you wanna, um. Want to.”

She pulls up before he can finish, kissing him sweetly on the lips. “Yes,” she answers simply, hands moving up under his T-shirt already. His heart is thudding, slow and steady in his ears, and he thinks she must feel it under her palm, dry and cool against his chest. 

“I didn't keep the journal last week,” Elliot admits first thing during his session with Krista. He’s wired, antsy after his overindulgence several days ago, and he can’t stop himself from rubbing the heels of his palms against his jeans, an anxious habit from teenagehood. “Sorry.”

“You don't need to apologize, Elliot,” she remedies in that soft, sweet voice of hers. Her words are careful and measured, spaced apart evenly like the marks on a ruler. “Can I ask why you didn't get to it?”

He shrugs. Stares at her purse on the floor. Thinks about Vera sliding the needle into his arm, about Shayla going down on him a couple days later. “Wasn't on my mind.” It’s true.

“Well, then. What was on your mind?” she prods.

He fumbles for a moment. “Been thinking about, uh,” he starts, then almost startles as a thought flashes across his mind, vivid and white hot. “My dad,” he chokes out, the word burning in his throat like alcohol.

Krista leans forward. “Can you elaborate on that? What about your father?”

He shakes his head. Squeezes his kneecaps. “He was—sick,” he relays, stilted. “Cancer. Leukemia. I was eight when he died.” 

“I’m sorry,” she expresses, setting her pen down on top of her notepad. He keeps his eyes on her pen cap as she continues. “What made you think about him just now?”

Good question. “When he was dying,” he starts, “I was the only one who knew. He didn’t tell my mom. Just me. And—no one could prove this, but. The company he worked for—he was working at this plant, in Washington Township. I’m pretty sure the radiation there gave him his cancer. They knew, and they still had the _audacity_ to fire him. I’ve done all the research. We even had a lawsuit, after he died—it was a whole… ordeal. But when he had it, he just. He didn’t do anything about it. _No one_ did anything. Because he couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ tell anyone about it. Except me.”

“That’s a heavy burden for a child to bear,” Krista acknowledges. “Did it bother you that he effectively chose to do nothing about his illness?”

“I just didn’t know why,” Elliot says truthfully. “Why it was happening, why I couldn’t tell anyone. It felt,” he pauses, thinks for a moment, “so out of my control. It was all out of my control.”

“Is that how you feel now? Like you have no control?”

“ _Yes,_ ” he realizes, face crumpling. He’s started rocking himself at some point, but can’t figure out when that was. “I just—I wish—I wish I could _do_ something. I feel, _stuck_ , like I’m—like I’m stuck in the backseat of the car, and the rest of the world is driving.”

“Elliot,” Krista opens, and Elliot rolls it over in his head again, the way she said his name. _Ell-lee-utt._ “You _can_ do something. No one but you is driving this car. Maybe you have obstacles, more than other people do. But the choice to _keep going_ is yours, and _only_ yours. You can’t let anyone take that away from you.”

Vera is waiting for him when he gets home.

The room is dark and shadowed, lit only by the lamp in the corner, and the pill bottles on the table cast long, stark shadows as Elliot shrugs his backpack off. Vera is smoking a half-used joint he must have pilfered from Elliot’s ashtray, eyes red and raw looking as he eyes the smaller man.

“What,” Elliot prompts, annoyed. Knows he has to replace his lock again soon.

“You been cryin’,” Vera states, smoke seeping out his mouth as he speaks. “Your eyes are all fucked up.”

“My eyes are always fucked up,” Elliot defends. He doesn’t move from where he stands near the door, eyeing Vera wearily. Shayla’s voice rattles through his head, _do you remember having sex, sex, sex._ “Why are you here.”

“You remind me of myself when I was younger,” the other starts. “All depressed and sullen. I hated myself, man. Still do.” Elliot blinks rapidly, trying to keep up with where Vera is going with this. “I know the shit I do ain’t right, man. Thought that shit was a weakness for a long time. Then I realized that shit was my _power_.” He fists his hands at that, as if his self-hatred was a steroid pumping through his blood. “People walk around, act like they know what hate means? Nah, no one does, not until you hate yourself. I mean _truly_ hate yourself. That's power.”

He goes quiet for a moment, tilting his head as he observes Elliot thoughtfully. “It’s bitches like you that inherit the earth,” he meditates. “That’s why I gotta keep you around. In my orbit. Who knows the galaxies we’ll conquer together.”

“You’re crazy, man,” Elliot says simply, finally shuffling over to his kitchen sink for a glass of water. His withdrawal symptoms have been getting better, but his throat’s still dry. “We’re nothing alike.”

There’s the distinct squeak of leather and springs as Vera rises from his seat, and Elliot resists the urge to turn around as he grabs a glass and turns on the tap. “No,” the dealer says simply, too close behind him for comfort. “But we will be.”

An hour later, Elliot is vomiting up semen and bile into his toilet with little ceremony, shivering as nausea and tremors shake through him violently.

He spits, gasps, fingers digging into his clothed kneecaps. He feels _awful_ , knows it's a combination of his withdrawal and sheer repulsion over what happened not ten minutes ago, the taste of it all still ugly and tacky in his throat.

He makes a few sad, pathetic noises before hoisting himself up and flushing the toilet, his throat tender and acidic. He rinses his mouth quick and dirty, before glancing up and flinching at his image in the mirror.

He looks arguably worse than he feels. His bottom lip is split and swollen, fresh bruises crowding along his jaw, dotting his throat. He wonders if that was a purposeful decision by Vera or if it was pure animal urge, that bizarre, obsessive mind of his compelling him to press thumbprint galaxies in the hollow of Elliot's throat.

He closes his eyes, swallows, thinks of aluminum baseball bats and crushed skulls. He thinks about Vera telling him _it’s bitches like you that inherit the earth_ and about Krista saying, softly, _no one but you is driving this car_. Thinks about his dad, doing nothing while he fucking wasted away.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks absently _. We’re nothing alike_.

“I thought about what you said last time,” he tells Krista a week later. He’s jittery, sweating, worse than the last two weeks. He hasn’t touched morphine in five days. “About me driving the car.”

“That’s good,” she encourages, although she does seem concerned with his appearance. “Did it help you?”

He nods, jerkily. “Yeah,” he confesses. “I did something I didn’t think I could do. I don’t know how it’s—how it’s going to go.” He thinks about Vera in handcuffs on that sidewalk, about the worst of his withdrawal yet to come. About Shayla and her safety. “But I finally feel like I’m driving the car again.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos, as always, are deeply appreciated.
> 
> for requests and commissions, you can contact me at [rara-rami](https://www.rara-rami.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
